


Echoes Within Oblivion

by mthrfkrgdhrwego (universalchampbalor)



Category: Sally Face (Video Games)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Canonical Character Death, Gen, Ghosts, Post-Canon, Semi-Graphic Description of Corpses, To Be Continued, i might add a second chapter but who knows, in this household we respect chapter 4, maybe???, musings about death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-05
Updated: 2019-09-05
Packaged: 2020-10-10 06:00:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,337
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20523104
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/universalchampbalor/pseuds/mthrfkrgdhrwego
Summary: There’s something awfully peaceful about being dead.





	Echoes Within Oblivion

There’s something awfully peaceful about being dead.

For one, there’s no pain. Pain has been a constant in Sal’s life, ever since The Accident. He doesn’t really remember it, if he’s being honest; it feels like a lifetime ago, his childhood, unobtainable to his mind. Theoretically, he knows he was a kid, but in actuality, the farthest he can remember is moving to Addison Apartments.

The pain, the constant, throbbing pain in the remains of his face, the stabbing migraines and the phantom sensations of his eye and nose, have faded. It makes sense, in a way; he’s dead. There’s no reason he’d feel anything. A large part of him supposes he expected the pain to linger because all the spirits of the apartments seemed to  _ hurt _ . 

Everything feels… muted. He can still hear, can still see, can smell and taste and touch. It’s just. It’s all fuzzy, like his nerve endings have been fried, or maybe like they’re taking in Too Much. Whatever the reason, it makes the faint smell of his skin frying and the stale taste of decay bearable. 

He expects to come back in the execution chamber, or maybe in the morgue. Every other ghost he’s encountered has lingered, stuck where they died, forced to wallow in the fading memories of their life. Instead, he wakes up in his old apartment.

It feels like waking up from a bad dream, adrenaline spike and all. He feels breathless, twitchy, paranoid, just like the aftermath of every night terror of his life. The only real difference is the missing prosthetics and the burned skin sloughing off of him. 

Everything looks the same as it did the last time he was here. It still feels like a bad dream, just out of reach, like he’s been awake just barely too long to recall. It’s only been three years, but the only thing he can remember is the fear, the panic, the desperation, the look on his dad’s face as the knife came into play.

God, even his dad feels false. Everything about his life, down to the last fucking detail, feels like a story, something scrawled on a page for the sole purpose of shock value. His mom, who died too young; his dad, the barely functioning alcoholic who  _ just _ got a second chance; Lisa, the first kind face in the apartments… it’s all a blur, just out of reach.

The only vivid thing is Larry.

Of course it is; of course the only thing he’d remember is the first friend he ever had. Of course it would be Larry, who didn’t give a shit about Sal’s… everything, who didn’t care past the ghosts and demons and the company Sal offered. Larry, who showed him music and art and  _ affection _ for the first damn time in his life. 

Larry, the only person who didn’t look away.

Even though Sal’s a damn  _ ghost _ , his limbs still feel like lead. He feels like he’s been asleep for a week, like he’s been in a depressive, paranoid slump and is just now coming back to life. How ironic. He wonders if he’ll be able to leave, or if he’ll be trapped, rooted to the room in an apartment that was never a home.

His hand trembles when he grabs the doorknob.

It opens.

He leaves the room.

Weakness floods Sal’s body, like what’s left of his musculature can’t support him, like his bones are just  _ gone _ . He barely manages to avoid collapsing.

It’s slow going, leaving the apartment.

Bits and pieces are coming to the surface; the Pillar, The Endless One, the Necrolight Guitar. The faces of his friends and family as he did what he had to do. All the years of living in the apartments, never feeling  _ safe _ because he knew what lurked in the walls. Dad and Lisa’s wedding. The way his dad’s voice cracked as he said, “ _ I’m so proud of you, _ ” right before Sal killed him.

Larry.

It’s been three years, three long years where Sal’s had nothing to do but think about everything. He still remembers the fear, the shock, the anger. The texts and the note are burned into his mind, as is the vacant, empty glaze of Larry’s ghostly eyes. He’s had more than enough time to analyze everything, to think over and overthink every last detail. Sal wonders if he could have helped Larry.

Probably not.

Eventually, Sal’s able to leave the apartment. He spends a long time just sitting in his dad’s old room, staring at the picture of his mom that’s still under the bed. He doesn’t cry, but it’s only because he’s unable to.

The apartments are still trashed; the gaping hole in the floor from the pillar is still there, as is the blood splatter and gore that Sal left. He’s not surprised; there wasn’t a whole lot to be salvaged, and after the massacre, he doubts anyone would  _ want _ to salvage the apartments. He fights the urge to go into everyone’s apartments, to see if there’s still stuff left, to see if he can remember everyone who lived there, remember everyone whose face is slowly fading. He doesn’t, though, because he doesn’t know if he could handle that.

He wanders around aimlessly for a while. There’s not really anything he can do, and it looks like the other spirits are all gone. On the surface, he knew that, because he and the others were having trouble contacting any of them. It still stings, though, not being able to talk to Rosenberg or Mrs. Sanderson. Sal finds himself missing Megan more than he expected to.

Sal finds himself in the basement.

It  _ hurts _ . Everything looks relatively untouched, other than the damage caused by the Pillar. Larry’s bedroom looks exactly the same as it always did, save for the film of dust over everything. There’s still a half-finished painting on the easel, the stains on the walls are still there, and the nicotine stains on the canvases around the room look the same. The bed is still unmade.

He sits on the floor and just stares at the floor. He wants to do something,  _ anything _ , to alleviate the pounding weight in his chest, but there’s nothing he  _ can _ do. He’s spent the last three years of his life preparing for his death, making peace with it, and he’d like to think he did a pretty good job. All that work crumbles away as he stares through the smoke-stained carpet.

Sal feels simultaneously grounded and like he’s a strong breeze away from floating off as he makes his way to the treehouse. It’s raining, but he can’t feel it landing on his charred skin. The weather is inconsequential to him, but somehow, it feels appropriate; the gloom, the chill that’s undoubtedly in the air, the rain. It’s almost comically appropriate.

The treehouse hasn’t changed. The boxes of Jim’s things are still piled against the walls, sagging with time and memories. There’s a layer of dust on the floor, on the boxes, on the shelves. The paintings are wilting off the walls. Everything has been virtually untouched, practically  _ preserved _ . It all just seems… older. Sadder. If he had the capability, Sal’s certain he’d be bawling.

“Larry?”

Sal’s voice is shot to shit. It barely leaves his mouth, dies off before he’s finished, gets tangled somewhere between his tonsils and his uvula. He’s not surprised; his vocal cords are probably nothing more than fucking jerky in his throat. Speaking hurts, in a weird, detached way; if he were alive, he would feel it, but really, he just knows it  _ should _ hurt and doesn’t. Thunder cracks outside the window.

Everything is silent.

Sal sags, the weight of everything collapsing down around him. He doesn’t know what he’s expecting. All the other spirits assimilated three years ago, before the massacre, so why would Larry have stayed? It just. It hurts, in the deep, emotional way that seems to transcend death, that seems to still hit him like a ton of bricks.

“Sal?”

**Author's Note:**

> I'm cherry-mox on Tumblr! Come bug me!  
Title credit to void by Sanity's Fall


End file.
